


Two By Two

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Established Relationship, First Time, Humor, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Mutual Awakenings, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, who has never seen these activities in the flesh, only read about in the abstract, is flushed to the roots of his hair. He bites the inside of his cheek too hard. He will not be fooled twice. It explodes from him; he is shouting out his shock: “Treachery! I might have known police spies go out in pairs--”</p>
<p>“It is a pity you will not let me cut off his tongue,” mutters Javert, sounding put-out. “That would be my official recommendation.”</p>
<p>“Hush,” Valjean tells Javert, and when he sounds impossibly <em>fond</em>, Enjolras knows they have been betrayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two By Two

Enjolras’ first thought is that the spy has broken loose.

In the darkness of the alley figures are fiercely grappling. There is a grunt of pain, a cut-off cry. Curses and blasphemies echo from the cobblestones.

Enjolras has come to check on Valjean, to offer a hand in the clean-up and aftermath of the spy Javert’s execution. Valjean was bold to take the task, and kind to take it from Les Amis de l’ABC. Even so, death is easy for no good man, and Enjolras, who might have had the duty otherwise, decides to do what he can for the executioner.

The scuffle in the alleyway speeds his heart, and with a hand on his carbine, Enjolras plunges forward. Valjean is strong, but his years are many, and his strength will be tested against the desperation of Javert. What would a man as single-minded and duplicitous as Javert do in the fight for his life?

They should not have left Valjean alone, despite his protestations. 

The only light is from narrow knife-slices that cut down through closed and boarded windows. As Enjolras approaches at speed, the men locked in conflict come into focus, their shadows peeling back. 

Enjolras skids to a stop and nearly loses his footing on the rain-slick stones. 

Valjean has Javert hefted and pinned against the wall, Javert’s long limbs fighting for purchase. Javert’s legs seize around Valjean’s back, then his buttocks. Javert’s dangerous hands are claws raking Valjean’s neck, down his spine. 

Valjean has his face pressed to the crook of Javert’s neck. Javert’s coat and shirt gape open. His pants are stripped off. The sense of movement Enjolras mistook at a distance is the thunderous roll of Valjean’s hips as he thrusts into Javert. Valjean’s cock is as formidable as the rest of him, and air has begun to emerge from Javert’s mouth in breathy gasps.

“Jean,” Javert is murmuring, again and again, “Jean, Jean--”

It is Javert who sees Enjolras first, as Valjean faces the wall in his exertions. Javert gives Enjolras a look of such profound loathing that it lands like a physical blow. Valjean must feel his lover tense, for he turns his silvered head a heartbeat later, his eyes wise and calm. 

Only the tremble of Valjean’s cheek shows the strain that he is under. “You will not understand,” he says to Enjolras, gently. The tone is belied by the unceasing action of his body, the primal rut he and Javert are engaged in. He does not stop, turning Enjolras into a spectator. 

Enjolras, who has never seen these activities in the flesh, only read about in the abstract, is flushed to the roots of his hair. He bites the inside of his cheek too hard. He will not be fooled twice. It explodes from him; he is shouting out his shock: “Treachery! I might have known police spies go out in pairs--”

“It is a pity you will not let me cut off his tongue,” mutters Javert, sounding put-out. “That would be my official recommendation.”

“Hush,” Valjean tells him, and when he sounds impossibly _fond_ , Enjolras knows they have been betrayed. 

Valjean’s treachery is greater than Javert’s, using his innocent daughter’s love of Marius to gain their trust. And who knows if the daughter is even innocent? Raised by a man such as this, she has encountered Marius at a too-convenient hour.

Enjolras narrows his eyes and sets his jaw. He will have to shoot both men before the night is out. His hand tightens on the carbine, his grip sweaty with the thought.

“You will not want to do anything foolish,” says Valjean, still in a kindly, even voice. “I was like you once, brave and rash. But you are smarter than I was, so you will step back, Enjolras, and go back to your smart young men. Javert and I have a compact; he will report nothing of your activities, and by the morning we will both be gone from your city.” He smiles, showing a mouthful of teeth worn down by age and a streak of malnutrition -- all the money in the world cannot buy new teeth. “You see, it is I who am the prisoner, not Javert.”

“ _Jean_ ,” Javert sighs again, sounding almost happy.

Valjean ignores him, save to quicken and deepen the angle of his thrusts, so that each pounds Javert against the whitewashed wall. Flakes of dislodged plaster fill the air. Valjean continues, “I leave our justice in your hands. You are just, and we will obey you.”

Javert gives a disdainful snort, but is discouraged from comment by a twist of Valjean’s hips. 

“You expect me to believe,” manages Enjolras, chewing on the words in his anger, “that you are in opposition?” He gestures with his hand at their interlocked bodies, and in his heat, the gesture is obscene. 

“Indeed.” All at once Javert’s disdainful frown is a shark’s grin. His eyes are grey and not cold, as Enjolras had thought before; they burn too brightly. He looks at Enjolras from over Valjean’s shoulder. “I despise this man. He is wrong and corrupt, a thief and a liar, an impersonator, a fraud, a mountebank. Worse, he is weak. His allegiance is to family, a pathetic instinct, a tribal one better lost with cavemen. Here we agree, do we not, boy? He taunts and abjures the law, all that God has given to keep us above the animals.” Javert’s gaze transfers back to Valjean with consideration. “I live but to see him punished for his crimes.”

Valjean tilts in and kisses Javert hungrily; Enjolras averts his eyes, but not fast enough to miss the way they seem to drink from each other’s mouths as though uncorking a bottle left in the winecellar for the right occasion. Left for decades.

Drawing back, Valjean’s teeth catch at Javert’s lower lip. Then he says thoughtfully, “And I hate him, much as I can hate any man at this stage in my life. More, I pity him. Javert is prejudiced and unkind; he is brutal; he knows only God’s righteous fury and none of His grace. He has dogged my steps and endangered all that I love; he has ruined me and fulfilled his own prophecies, turned me into the thief in the night he thought I was. So long as both of us live, neither of us may be at ease.”

Javert nods a sort of thoughtful agreement to this, distracted by Valjean tangling one hand in his long hair and pulling.

Enjolras blinks at the joint testimonies, his eyebrows adrift. Exasperated, he gestures again.

“It is the only element common between us,” says Valjean, seeming unconcerned. “It is understood between us.”

“Sinners recognize one another on sight,” agrees Javert. “It is how Devil ensures that we are damned. Without Valjean I would have never trespassed.”

The expression of affection that Valjean turns on Javert makes Enjolras think they are not as convinced of their logic as they protest. 

“He is my trial on Earth,” Javert goes on, seeming pleased by Valjean’s reaction, no longer addressing Enjolras, “and in him I will find my redemption.”

“Will you?” Valjean also seems to have forgotten about Enjolras, the question posed archly as he boxes Javert against the wall. “ _Will you?_ ”

“I should --” Enjolras coughs to clear his throat, clear his mind. His eyes go everywhere in the alleyway that is not the men before him, who are kissing again. 

Enjolras should fetch Combeferre, or Feuilly, or Feuilly and Combeferre, to advise him on how to proceed with this most unusual development. But his soft-hearted humane friends may be swayed by the strange story of codependence, and put the matter to a distracting vote. They are at war; it is not the time for voting. He could fetch Courfeyrac, but Courfeyrac would only be too delighted to let the scene carry on with him watching.

Enjolras knows he cannot fetch anyone. To leave means letting the trespassers escape. To stay means fighting them both. If he calls out to his comrades in arms, he will make murderers of good people. He did not wish the fate for Valjean, and he cannot give it over to his friends. 

Enjolras swallows. Changes course. What he fights for is too big to lose to the concerns of aged men. “Where will you go?”

Valjean’s smile is full of approval. He ducks his head, letting Javert be the one to say, authoritatively, “We shall revisit every place where his crimes were committed, and stand trial there.”

“A trip we have long put off,” agrees Valjean, standing for Javert. 

Before they can meet at the mouth again, Enjolras says, firmly, “There will be no mention of the barricades or its volunteers. You were never here.”

“You have my word,” says Valjean, and Enjolras can feel the hefty weight of it. Enjolras wants to believe this man; he believes he understands him.

“It is no longer our affair,” says Javert. He stares past Enjolras as though he were no more than a cockaded cockroach, entirely unimportant now that Valjean is caught, and Enjolras believes Javert, too.

“Your daughter will be in my protection,” Enjolras says, then watches all the broad muscles seize up along Valjean’s back under his torn coat. Enjolras hates to make the shadowed threat, means it as a reminder that oaths must be kept. He tries not to think about how by morning it may not matter if the men share intelligence of the students’ movement. By then they may be folklore.

Valjean says, through gritted teeth, “You will tell Cosette that I have gone on a journey. An adventure.”

Before Javert can snort, he takes the brunt of the emotional scene, his head smacking back and hastening a snowfall of plaster as Valjean drives into him.

“Erm,” says Enjolras. “Right. I will inform Marius.”

“He seems an upright enough lad, but there’s something -- tell me, as his friend --”

“Not _now,_ Jean--”

Enjolras shrugs, squinting to describe Marius. “He’s an affable sort. Courfeyrac could tell you more. I have not spent the most time with him.” By mutual inclination, Napoleonic.

“Oh--”

“ _Jean!_ ”

“Good night,” says Enjolras, turning smartly on his heel, feeling it the only recourse left. The two men are speedily unravelling. “I hope you find your justice. I wish you luck.”

“And you, my boy.”

“The National Guard have four cannon at this position, and three at the next,” Javert says to Enjolras, curt. “You will need far more than luck to last the night.”

Enjolras glances at Javert, fleetingly, then nods, tucking away the information, however dreadful. They do not look at each other again.

Valjean says, “This is how to best your opposition, Enjolras.”

“Make them sin?” 

“Always,” says Valjean. “It is the only way to win a war. One side becomes the sainted and the others are sinners, and that is what your history books care about.”

“You simplify a storied sequence of events and conquests meted out by just men,” says Javert, from where he is setting bites along the line of Valjean’s collarbone. Before Enjolras can account for it Javert and Valjean are engaged in a heated debate about the efforts of historians while they climb towards climax, bracketed together.

Ignored, Enjolras lets himself blink at them a final time, then starts the march back to the Cafe Musain. The entire encounter has been so surreal that he wonders if he is dreaming, slumped exhausted in a corner of their fort of rubbish. Any moment now Courfeyrac will touch his arm to trade off the watch, Enjolras thinks. Any moment now.

The Musain had a charming carved-oak back door that has since been wrestled from its hinges and piled onto a pile of garbage to make a standing-platform. Going in, Enjolras encounters Grantaire on his way out the open portal. 

He raises an instinctive arm to halt Grantaire. “You cannot go that way.”

Grantaire’s responsive grin is incredulous. “Pardon, I thought it was the alley _way_. I did not know your jurisdiction extended there.” He sweeps a little bow, but even Grantaire -- especially Grantaire -- is worn-down and exhausted by the day’s events, a shadow of his boisterous self. He looks half-drunk and hollowed out, and he looks at Enjolras in a new way -- as though he can no longer quite bear to look at him. 

“Find another path home, if you are leaving,” says Enjolras, not meaning to appear so stern in delivery, yet aware that his face is a challenge to Grantaire. Grantaire, with his ready arguments and his lengthy detractions, his poisonous pessimism. Grantaire with his wild black hair and his blue eyes that laugh at Enjolras, that are always laughing. There is no place for him on the barricades, Enjolras knows: he is a distraction. Yet it wrenches in him to have caught Grantaire in retreat.

To Enjolras’ surprise, Grantaire meets the glare steadily enough. The bottle in his hand is three-quarters full. The evening is early. His smile quirks at the edges. “Where _should_ a man relieve himself, pray tell?”

“In the latrine that we dug together,” Enjolras bites out, letting the fact of Grantaire’s ignorance stand for his lack of participation. He claps a hand onto Grantaire’s shoulder to propel him in the correct direction. 

Grantaire twists out of the grip, leans instead against the wall. He folds his arms across his chest. His vest is a tattered green. “I can find it, then.” His eyes are a fathomless blue because he is blinking too rapidly to let their true color be ascertained. 

Enjolras looks down at his hand, which Grantaire had cast off as though it burned him. He flexes his fingers. His lifeline fades into the skin of his palm. 

He will probably not live to see daylight, and so he asks a question he would not have asked, had it been any other day.

“Why did you do that?” asks Enjolras. He must be certain.

Grantaire meets his eyes, terrified and unafraid. “You know why.”

Enjolras nods. He knows. He is certain. Then he is crowding Grantaire up against the wall, hearing his own heartbeat in the rush of blood screaming past his ears. 

Enjolras hears: _This is how you best the opposition._

He digs the fingers of one hand into Grantaire’s curls and tests what it is like to pull. He saw this done in the alleyway. Grantaire’s head goes back, as Javert’s had, and he shows the milky column of his throat as though he were yielding a wrestling match. The bottle falls and shatters against the wood floor, makes a wine-dark puddle at their feet.

Enjolras hears: _Sinners recognize each other on sight._

Grantaire’s shocked eyes are open and he is breathing quickly through his nose. “Should chaste Artemis gaze upon a blundering Orion?” he asks.

“You speak too much,” answers Enjolras. He leans in and seals his mouth across Grantaire’s.

It is wonderful to feel Grantaire’s body start and then shiver against his own; it is proof that they yet live, that Enjolras is not dreaming, that bodies are capable of even better ways to make the heart beat faster than fighting. 

Ducking to kiss Grantaire, Enjolras feels a greater thrill than he ever has with a weapon in his hand. It is a discovery made too late. He slides his tongue between Grantaire’s lips to forget. 

Grantaire’s mouth is hot and wet. It is wet to kiss another person like this, Enjolras learns after a first sloppy try, and Grantaire bears it out, does not wipe away the shine on his chin. The second try is better. Enjolras’ lips firm against Grantaire’s and Grantaire’s tongue darts, dares, delivers a flurry of welcome. Tongues have a secret language all their own that is never heard out loud.

A long while passes before they emerge for air. The air smells of woodsmoke from the makeshift fire-pit. They can hear the shout and answer of men in the distance and the closer bustle of those in the front room of the cafe. 

Grantaire draws a quivering breath, and Enjolras prepares for a withering debate. 

Grantaire whispers, “Would you follow me upstairs?”

“As Eurydice trailed Orpheus, I expect?” 

“I should hope not.” Grantaire’s smile is small but pronounced. His eyes have a new lightness that Enjolras likes. Sky-blue; that is the color of Grantaire’s eyes, sky-blue with threat of a storm. “I can imagine a far better conclusion.”

“Eurydice vanished when Orpheus turned back,” Enjolras says, so as not to have to address the matter of why they are breathless. “So Orpheus shunned all women in his grief and indulged in love affairs with young men, and was torn apart by jealous Maenads for acts of defiance.”

Grantaire’s mouth is very, very red, the red of summer strawberries and spilled wine. “Just so.” 

“But it means Orpheus got to join Eurydice in the Underworld after all,” Enjolras goes on, finding it impossible not to play devil’s advocate with Grantaire, even now. "In the end."

He has sought reason from the turbulent myth. Why should Orpheus blindly trust that his wife will follow him without fail? What sort of lesson is it to tell a man never to look back? 

The story has long unsettled Enjolras. He makes his peace by considering Orpheus content with his bride in Elysium, having won her again through pain and self-sacrifice. He prefers this ending. 

“I will not look back,” says Grantaire, eyes big with Enjolras’ response. “I will go up the stairs and into the third room, and leave that door propped. I will not look back; the thought that you may follow is enough to sustain me.” 

Enjolras feels his breath escape in a sigh. They have little enough time; already it is stolen. There is no time left for games. He reaches out and takes Grantaire’s hand, folding up their fingers. “Other myths speak of shades pulled from Hades’ realm by sheer will and strength alone,” he tells Grantaire. “Eurydice and Orpheus should have held hands.” 

He is the one to tug Grantaire up the stairs. There is no time to look anywhere but forward.

The third door is on the left. The door locks from the inside. 

Inside it is bare. Painfully, pitiably bare, a once-cozy guestroom stripped of its decor. All the furniture has been hacked down for firewood and defensive reinforcement, lanterns and candles ripped from their wall-sconces. There is nothing here but Grantaire, who is staring at where the curtains on the window used to hang, and a haphazard pile of stocked provisions in one corner. It is a storage-room now, soon to be a field hospital, Enjolras thinks. 

Enjolras steadies his voice. Lets go of Grantaire, who does not go far. Grantaire is quite close, in fact, and when Enjolras makes no sign of moving away, Grantaire is even closer, and he is leaning up on his toes to kiss Enjolras. 

Enjolras parts his lips at the pressure, and then Grantaire’s fingers are slipping into his hair, Grantaire’s tongue is slipping into his mouth. 

Grantaire’s hands are cupping the sides of his face. Grantaire’s thumb strokes across his cheekbone, the touch tender and reverent.

A low moan sounds in the small space, and Enjolras, tearing his mouth away, realizes with a start that he originates it. “We do not have time for love-making,” he says, trying to regain some of his famed ability to be brusque. 

“Is that what we were doing?” says Grantaire, guileless, beguiling. “My God, I thought it was a kiss.”

“Would you have it be more?”

“I would crawl through Hades on my hands and knees, blinded and hobbled, dragging Sisyphus’ stone, beset by Tantalus’ thirst.”

“That will not be necessary,” says Enjolras. He feels the smile on his lips before he is conscious of smiling. He is smiling at Grantaire, making fists in the fabric of Grantaire’s vest, a forest-green now besieged by smudges of charcoal smoke. “Can I remove your clothing?”

“It is terribly constrictive,” agrees Grantaire, with a pink flick of tongue to wet his lips. 

Permission more than given, Enjolras takes longer than he should stripping Grantaire. He should not be doing this at all, he knows. 

Yet if he is damned, if he is condemned, what is a stolen hour?

He believes Valjean and Javert, then. 

He shuts his eyes, seeing them, how they had joined. He opens his eyes, and flushes, and Grantaire must note the color. Enjolras has gotten him out of his boots and pants and the vest is gone; Grantaire’s shirt hangs open to show his smooth chest and the fine lines of his abdomen. Grantaire’s cock has stirred from the kisses, from this handling, and Grantaire stands unembarrassed. Cocky.

Enjolras says, “I saw two men in the alley. They were...engaged.”

“In the…?” Graintaire’s eyes spark. A lightning storm. For once his merry laugh does not annoy Enjolras. “Athena raged, I suppose, at the uncouth Hephaesti.”

“No,” says Enjolras. “They were inspirational.”

Grantaire’s mouth hangs open. He works it to speak, but Enjolras starts to step forward, causing Grantaire to step back, and no sound emerges until Grantaire hits the whitewashed wall. Then he manages, “How were your gentlemen arrayed?”

“I will demonstrate,” says Enjolras. “One man, the broader one, had his fellow pressed up to the wall, like so.” He takes Grantaire into his arms, braces for the lift that lets Grantaire’s feet leave the ground. 

Grantaire is keenly following the retelling; he wraps his legs around Enjolras, levies his weight by gripping Enjolras’ shoulders. Only now, in attempting the maneuver, does Enjolras understand the level of accord needed by both parties to achieve it. 

“I see,” says Grantaire. “A poignant embrace.”

“They were fucking,” says Enjolras. “I want to fuck you.”

“Put me down,” says Grantaire, and Enjolras nearly drops him. “No, I did not mean it like that. I mean. We will need -- perhaps, in the corner--”

Enjolras’ heart has leapt and calmed in the space of an instant, and is now at a steady thud. “Tell me.”

“Tallow -- or -- or oil --”

The supplies were stacked here by Enjolras with Bahorel's broad back roped into mule duties. All the supplies are scanty; there is only an inch or so of oil in the blue clay jar from the Musain’s kitchens. He retrieves it and retraces his steps: Grantaire has not shifted from where he was put down, but he holds his hands out.

Enjolras passes over the jar. Grantaire looks at him. Enjolras stares back. 

Grantaire clears his throat. “I must -- or --”

“Or?”

“You could, if you--”

“Assume that I can.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire, and closes his eyes. They blink open in sharp focus. He speaks at his most rapid clip. “Dip your fingers into the oil and use them to stretch me. If you start one at a time it goes best. Quickly, Enjolras, before you change your mind.”

Enjolras is scarlet to the tips of his ears. He is smiling. He scoops oil into his palm. He starts to do as Grantaire described. “Do all men and women couple like this?”

“It is more rare,” says Grantaire, his lip bitten. “This positioning, as such. Few have the strength to bear another aloft. Was it a giant you glimpsed in the alleyway? 

The procedure advances, fascinating and arousing. Grantaire responds to the introduction of Enjolras’ fingers both vocally and physically, and can be made to react with enthusiasm.

“Most lie upon their backs?” Enjolras would not cause Grantaire grave discomfort. He is not sure Valjean was so predisposed. 

“Or on hands and knees, as beasts and Spartans,” sniffs Grantaire, who is more Athenian.

“If you would prefer--”

“I would prefer another,” says Grantaire. His eyes are laughing and piercing. “You speak too much.”

Enjolras obliges, until his fingers can slide easily inside Grantaire. He lets there be silence as it happens, save for the soft plea of Grantaire’s encouragement. Then Enjolras says, “Speechifying is the second similarity we share, and perhaps the only other.”

“What is the first?”

“Desire,” says Enjolras. Sin, Javert would have said, but he is nothing like Javert. His fingers are anointed with oil. It feels far more sacred than profane. With his free hand, he starts to undress. “Appetite. Lust. Predilection. Nature.”

“That is five things,” says Grantaire. “Six, if you count mutual loquaciousness.” Then, far less teasing, “You desire me?”

“Do I perform this act incorrectly?”

“N-no, you are a wonder, a _wunderkind_. You are right; you are a natural.” The way Grantaire looks at Enjolras has long been a distraction. Now Grantaire makes his admiration plain, as Enjolras uncovers his body. “Yours is a beauty hard to gaze upon; you cast off too much light and shadow; you are a diamond cut by the jeweller of the gods. Look at your arms, limned in bronze. Your lips are rosepetals where I had thought them rubies.”

“They are the only part of me that is soft,” Enjolras agrees, stepping out of his pants.

Grantaire closes his mouth.

After he has learned how to twist them, Enjolras withdraws his fingers. Both are fully unclothed: he pulls the shirt from Grantaire’s shoulders. It is an easy thing to press Grantaire up against the wall, now that Enjolras knows it can be done. He may not have Valjean’s immense strength, but he has youthful enthusiasm. Grantaire is lifted, again.

Enjolras holds firm. The muscles of his arms are corded thick, his feet are set and squared. Grantaire is helping. His thighs brace around Enjolras’ hips, he is hauling himself up against the wall with the strength of his body, his hands using Enjolras’ shoulders as counterbalance. It takes more than trust to pull this off; it requires collaboration.

They settle, swaying. 

“Is this what you saw, Enjolras?” Grantaire wants to know. Grantaire is wrapped all around him. Waiting. His black hair curls in dangerous spirals and dares to obscure his eyes.

Enjolras nods, a dip of his head. The force of his lean keeps Grantaire aloft. He has one arm tucked under Grantaire’s buttocks, bearing his weight. “Somewhat,” he says.

Enjolras’ other hand circles at the base of his cock, understanding with instinct how he must be aligned. He lines himself up. “I do not wish to go as fast as they did,” he says. “They were brutal, and I would not be that way with you.”

“How should we go?”

“Carefully,” says Enjolras. “May I?”

“I wish you would,” says Grantaire.

As Enjolras fits his cock inside -- tight, Grantaire is tight around him, bearing down -- Enjolras groans, and startles at the sound, but does not stop. The maneuver at the wall is a difficult one. Grantaire must lower himself to accept Enjolras’ length, while Enjolras thrusts in and up. 

The first grip of Grantaire around him is a Herculean labor to endure without loosing another groan. Grantaire might appreciate the imagery, but all Enjolras wants to do is end this precarious standing and throw Grantaire upon the floor, and have him after the manner of beasts and Spartans.

Enjolras is Spartan through and through. That is how he is able to stand quite still, stalwart, letting them both adjust to it, though his knees want to buckle. He fights an irresistible urge to kiss Grantaire as he thrusts into him.

Grantaire’s lips are busy anyway, parted with panting breaths coming through his teeth. With every inch of Enjolras’ cock he takes another breath; he is breathing rapidly and shows no signs of stopping. “Enjolras--”

“Is it a discomfort? 

“It is not.”

“Then why did you say my name?”

“Yes, like that, yes. -- It is a fine name. I like to hear it.”

“It is the ancestral name.”

“It is yours,” Grantaire corrects, his head connecting with the wall as Enjolras drives deep. “And mine, to do with it as I will. It is my favorite appellation, ahead of Huginn and Muginn.”

“You are as sentimental as you are mad.” Enjolras is surprised into a laugh. Enjolras is exploring the pale shell of Grantaire’s ear, bringing the pearl of skin at its base into his mouth. He discovers that if he licks here, it radiates all throughout Grantaire’s body, to amplify the sensation of their joining. He licks and licks. Then he says, close to Grantaire’s ear, sentimental, “I can go no further. You have all of me.”

“All?” The blown pupils of Grantaire's eyes are jet-black, his bitten lip blood-red. “Can the young sun be encompassed by--”

“Hush,” says Enjolras, impossibly fond.

He kisses Grantaire quiet. Quiet is needed for this, save the sounds they let slip with increasing abandon. Enjolras cannot focus on conversing, even debating, can only think about the way his cock can slide in and out, and if he hitches Grantaire up higher he can go even further. 

Grantaire takes the length of him without protest, takes the testing snaps of Enjolras’ hips until he finds a rhythm. Grantaire’s gaze drops to their bodies, tracking the sight of them in union. He says nothing, understanding the need for quiet (for once), his arms looped Enjolras’ around neck for leverage. Grantaire’s tricky hips roll to meet his, and they move in time, as though to a music only they can hear. 

It is wondrous; it is glorious; it is everything the stories promised and nothing that they prepared him for. Enjolras has never felt his body more acutely, nor been so aware of its capabilities; never has he been matched with such an able sparring partner. 

Carefully, he had said. Soon it is not careful, it is debauched and indulgent, and Enjolras refocuses, realizes that he is driving Grantaire into the wall hard enough to dislodge plaster. 

Grantaire’s mouth is a pretty ‘o’. The noises he makes are tenor-pitched and musical. Enjolras kisses him and tastes salt. There are faded tear-tracks on Grantaire’s face but no tears now. Enjolras keeps kissing him, chasing all the salt away.

He takes Grantaire’s straining cock into his hand, and learns another important lesson. Grantaire prefers a firm grip with a sure upstroke; that is enough to make him go tense around Enjolras, and to widen his eyes and gasp.

Enjolras grows tired of silence quickly enough. Grantaire’s speeches, even at his most antagonistic, are the heart of him. The first thing they have in common. Enjolras knows that the same may be said of him. 

So: “Your opinion, Grantaire?”

“Favorable,” exhales Grantaire, cracking a smile, looking relieved to have words back between them. Then he launches into a stream: “I could sing you an aria of praise, or give over a sonnet, if you would prefer; if I had charcoal and paper I should sketch you a masterpiece.” 

It is enough, it is more than enough, that Grantaire’s hips angle to meet Enjolras’, that his hands clutch at the back of Enjolras’ neck, helping to stay above ground. Enjolras says, “I wish you would speak freely.”

Grantaire’s head cants sideways. His hair has picked up static with their motion and loose curls cling to the wall. “You dislike me like that.”

“I often disagree,” says Enjolras, driving the point home directly. “That is quite different.”

“Quite,” echoes Grantaire. It does not take much prompting to rouse him. “I shall speak freely since you will it. I am in Elysium; I had never thought to visit on Earth, though I have tried enough after my own fashion. I am a hedonist, Enjolras; I seek pleasure and ease the way you wake up yearning for liberty. Since I treasure soft things, my heart is also soft. I cannot pass a beggar in the street but give him what is in my pockets. I give to all the great causes, and find my pockets empty. I am inefficient.” Grantaire pauses at punctuation, rocking against Enjolras. “I sought something steady that would keep me accountable, and found it in your person. You are fire, and icy oblivion. You have served to make me numb more than any tonic. You were immune to all overtures, yet saw fit to draw me out. Why so? I would ask myself. Why chastise me, why implore me, why let me whisper in your ear, only to turn into marble once more? The paradox of you was enough. Is. You astound me. You have acted impartial to the preoccupations of men with paramours; you say precisely nothing on the subject. One is left with the conclusion that you are unmoved. But -- ah -- ah -- _Enjolras_ \--"

In constant motion, Enjolras contradicts Grantaire’s latter statement with his body: he is not impartial. He is more than capable, and quite favorably biased towards Grantaire’s person. Fascinating (earth-moving) to hear that all this time Grantaire has been seeking steadiness from Enjolras, acting from a desire to be kept accountable, to have something to live for after the last round.

Enjolras has known of Grantaire’s attraction to him from the first _(it is how the Devil ensures that we are damned)_ , but has long assumed Grantaire’s half-hearted participation in Les Amis de l’ABC arose from opportunity and boredom. To hear that Grantaire was instead seeking a sort of redemption --

_\-- in Enjolras --_

Enjolras shivers, his skin showing gooseflesh, and he speeds his thrusts cover it. He has asked for Grantaire’s speech. He has wondered about Grantaire for too long.

Grantaire resumes speaking, after a series of “ahs” strung together. “Ah--nd so, never having expected to have this scene with you anywhere but in a cot on my own in an opium den, I can claim to be in paradise. Few men are delivered of what they most covet in their lifetime. That is the best-kept secret amongst the human race. You ask for my opinion. In my opinion, I must still be dreaming, and I will weep when I am awake again.”

The frown bends Enjolras’ mouth. He slows to a standstill. “Have I put you off so cruelly?”

Grantaire says nothing, but it does not bear repeating or revisiting, not now. Not when they are like this. There is no need to summon Enjolras’ harsh reprimands, or Grantaire’s acidic ripostes. Enjolras is sorry to have said so. 

He retracts by drinking deep of Grantaire’s mouth. 

Then Enjolras attempts his own reasoning. “That I should want to have you in this way struck me as incongruous to how I perceived your intentions.” It sounds like something from his lawbooks He shakes his head. This is the part that bears repeating: “But I did. I wanted you.”

Still Grantaire says nothing. He drops his head, presses his face to the curve of Enjolras’ neck, as though he can no longer maintain the weight of eye contact. His arms tighten into an embrace, then relax. His motion against Enjolras becomes less frantic, becomes fluid, until he slows entirely. Lets Enjolras resume, lets Enjolras be the only one to move them, to keep them level. Lets Enjolras frame him and pin him up to the wall, obscenely fine art.

Enjolras gets it, moves in to take Grantaire faster, harder, closer, their bodies joined at every juncture. Skin on skin, his hand on Grantaire’s cock, his cock so deep in Grantaire. They are in unison as they strain and seek the edge of it together. 

Grantaire goes off first, spending slick and warm and wet in the space between their bellies, and his mouth is open on Enjolras’ shoulder and he is biting there, hard. His quivering thighs lock around Enjolras, and hold, and he holds onto Enjolras everywhere.

Pleasure and pain overwhelms Enjolras; overrides him; he rides up against Grantaire one last time and spills when Grantaire retakes the length of him. It feels better than anything has done before. It feels too good to have so much sorrow attached. 

Can this forest-fire of excitement and joy be free and easily given? Enjolras has always classified pleasure as a distraction. He did not know that it could be energizing, enervating, electrifying to his entire system. He has never been so fully alive as this moment, kept fast inside Grantaire as Enjolras keeps them vertical. 

The wall props them as they breathe. They have hit it hard enough to cause a rain of plaster dust. It ghosts their hair white. Enjolras tucks his fingers beneath Grantaire’s chin and tilts his head back, so that they can kiss before Grantaire must be set down.

Disengaging is a complicated, wretched maneuver that Enjolras only just manages not to stumble through. His arms are shaking as he levers Grantaire to the floor. Grantaire’s feet kick once before the ground, as though wanting to remember how it feels to be airborne. 

“Enjolras,” says Grantaire. It is Enjolras’ name, not the ancestral one. It is full of satisfaction and gratitude, and something that neither of them can name. They have dabbled in enough powerful magics. 

To speak of love is to eclipse the self. They are needed here. There is no space for it. Grantaire shapes his name instead, breathes it like a holy word and lets it fly.

Their foreheads touch as they try to regain a steady balance on sea legs. The surface of the empty room rises and falls.

Enjolras takes his hand for an anchor. “Grantaire.”

Together they face the far shore.


End file.
